


Stuck Inside

by Torched22



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: COVID19, Childhood Memories, Corona Virus - Freeform, Mention of Suicide Attempt, Quarantine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/pseuds/Torched22
Summary: Malcolm (like all of us) is stuck inside due to the quarantine. The last place he wants to be is trapped in his own head, but he tries to make do.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

Malcolm paced and worried and paced some more, surprised that he hadn’t worn a rut in his hardwood floor. Anxiety rolled in waves through his chest and he brought his shaky hand to the back of his neck, for what must have been, the thousandth time. He’d worn the skin there raw, unable to keep the itch in his fingertips idle.

How many days had it been? Six? Seven? Eight? It felt like an eternity. An endless waiting game in which his sanity had been put on hold and left to listen to soft rock and panicked news reports on a loop. He wanted to hang up. To make this all go away. 

The phone rang and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Taking a steadying breath, he listened to his ringtone twice more as he composed himself enough to pick it up and read the singular word on the screen: Mother.

With a sigh, he answered it.

“Darling,” Jessica’s voice floated through the device and nestled into his brain. “Are you alright? How are you doing?” she sounded calm, but he heard it for the illusion it was. 

“I’m fine,” he lied. Those two words seemed to reside in his mouth permanently, ready and waiting on the back of his tongue to be fetched. 

“Oh, I do wish you would have taken me up on my offer to stay here during all of this,” she sighed. 

No way. No way was Malcolm going to stay at his family home with his mother and sister during this pandemic. As much as he loved them both, he knew that they would eventually drive him mad. Not to mention, it was...is...where all of his nightmares resided.

“Did you get my little gift?” she asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He sucked in a breath and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I did.” 

“Good,” she said warmly. 

Malcolm glanced over at his now fully stocked kitchen. Just an hour earlier, Henry (Jessica’s personal favorite) had rapped at the door despite having two armfuls of groceries. Turns out, there was a lot more where that came from. Henry came and went, depositing grocery bags on the counter, until there were none left to fetch. He unloaded the items and put everything away for Malcolm, despite the young man's protests.

“It wasn’t easy to find that toilet paper you know," she giggled. "You'd better make good use of it."

“This is ridiculous,” he screwed his eyes shut. “People are acting crazy,” he waved with his free hand. “Why the hell is there a run on toilet paper?”

“I don’t know sweetheart, but the whole city’s locked down and I just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed.” Malcolm marveled at how his mother’s words remained rose tinted and cheerful despite current events.

“It’s not like you could make it through an entire month on licorice alone.”

“Y-you think it’ll be a whole month?” his mouth went dry.

“Well, I don’t know dear. But listen...I want you to call me anytime, about anything. If you’re feeling lonely or anxious...”

“I know, I know,” he waved off the worry, dragging his thumb and index finger along his brow. “I’ll be alright,” he lied once more, surprised at the ease with which the falsehood slid from his lips. 

“Okay. Well, I’ll check in with you later. I love you.” 

He could hear the smile in her voice, but knew it was faltering beneath the weight of the quarantine. “Love you too.” 

They hung up.

Malcolm bit at his lip between sharp teeth and knew - just knew - that he was carving permanent worry lines upon his face with each drawn out moment. In the past six days, his therapist had called... along with Ainsley, Gil, Jessica, and Dani. Edrisa and JT had texted. Hell, even Vijay texted. 

They all asked how he was to some degree or another. They gave advice, offered support and shot the shit just to pass the time. But none of it made Malcolm feel any better. 

No, he could feel his anxiety creeping upon him like a shadow in the dark, clawing up his spine, writhing in the back of his skull. His apartment walls were closing in. The silence threatened to consume him. Gone were the wailing ambulances and cop cars and honking commuters. Gone was the chatter and shouts and shuffling of pedestrians floating up from the sidewalk. The street was empty, the city was still. All of the quiet, all of the emptiness, planted a seed of dread that bloomed in the pit of his stomach.

If it was possible...he felt both restless and lethargic. He felt the urge to get up -- to do something - anything. But didn’t really have the resolve to do it. If it weren’t for his night terrors, he would try to sleep the days away. But how could he choose the lesser of those two evils? Which was worse? Being stuck in a nightmare, or being stuck in a reality that had become a nightmare? One thing was for sure, he didn’t want to be conscious. 

He stood there, in the middle of his living room, arms crossed, and glared at the TV remote as if it had affronted him. There was nothing live to watch - no sports or late night shows or new concerts. Which left movies (something he rarely watched), TV shows (something he never watched) and the news. It was the last of these that haunted him. News anchors were on an apocalyptic carousel, touting the end of the world like the homeless doomsday prophet on the corner of 58th and Roosevelt. 

He swallowed thickly and took a deep breath. During these days, he tried to stick to routine, to keep busy, but the fear was always niggling at the back of his mind. He focused on self care...showering, yoga, meditation, affirmations. He tried to keep his mind sharp by reading, playing sudoku, doing crosswords and researching cold cases. He took his medications like clockwork. Still, every day, every moment, was a struggle.

Briefly he wondered if this was what prison was like. His mind’s eye conjured up Martin’s face, suspended beneath the warring light from the windows in his cell and the shadows that crawled up from the floor. 

He considered what his father had to work with. A TV. Some books. A bed to sleep away the hours. A desk at which he could sit and draw his diagrams and sketches. He could consult on surgeries...and of course...see Malcolm. 

The psychiatric hospital had called him two days ago to inform him that there would be no visitors. His response was a wrenched, "oh," and then, "okay." He had hung up the phone feeling as if someone had hit him and he was living in the stunned silence of the aftermath. Malcolm couldn’t go to Claremont now, even if he wanted to, and that thought sent fear skittering through his prison bar ribcage. 

He’d spent an entire decade not visiting Martin - but that had been his choice. Now, there were no choices... it was that lack of ability to decide for himself that made Malcolm feel as though the world was collapsing in on itself. Now that he had been told he couldn't see Martin, it was all he wanted to do. 

Absentmindedly, he rubbed at his neck once more, hissing at the pain the action elicited. The skin that was left on the nape of his neck was angry and red. It had already bled twice. Malcolm continued his pacing and this time, threw in some anti-anxiety techniques. Immediately, his brain rebelled. It didn't want to be soothed. It didn't want inaction and platitudes and hope...it wanted life to resume, for reality to return to being real rather than this cheap imitation of a poorly written Twilight Zone episode. 

Finally, he traipsed over to his bed and flopped down on it with a thud. He grabbed a pillow and shoved his face into it, letting a scream rip from his lungs. Newly forming tears stung behind his eyes, but he was determined not to let them fall. 

Scared. 

He was scared. 

Nails digging into the pillow, he recalled another time he had been scared, as a child. 

In the pie that was his life, this incident occurred in the slice that was 'before.' Before Martin had begun chloroforming him, before the camping trip, before his pyramid existence was flipped on its peak only to crumble and topple over. He remembered it with gem-cut clarity, despite being only eight at the time. 

He had been riding bikes with his neighborhood friend, Nate. They whipped around corners and whizzed past walkers-by. Malcolm wanted to show off his new bike to his friend, he wanted to prove that he was a skilled bicyclist. He only turned his head for one second, one moment, as they whipped down the street where they lived. He stole a single glance over at Nate who was beaming, and when he looked back to the road ahead of him, a car door had manifested in his way. His little hands turned the handle bar, but it was too late. 

Eight year old Malcolm had slammed into the opening car door at full force and his stomach leapt to his throat as he was thrown from his ride. He spent one dreadful moment in the air, caught between heaven and earth before crashing down on the pavement with a smack, rolling once before sliding to a halt in the middle of the street. 

He heard Nate's bike breaks squealing somewhere behind him, and fear and embarrassment gripped him violently. The shock of it all was so strong that he didn't feel the pain at first, he just stood up - slow and wobbly. Nate came running up to him, dropping his bike. The person in the car who had opened the door was rushing towards him as well. He turned around, staggering towards Nate a little and lying about how 'okay' he was. But from the look on Nate's face, he knew he was definitely not okay. 

It had been a hot summer day and Malcolm was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. His knees were skinned, blood rushing down his shins and his shirt was torn at his shoulder, which also bled. His right cheek stung and he felt liquid sliding down his face. He reached a small, pale hand up to swipe at it and look, seeing his tears and blood on his fingers. There was another cut above his brow that bled and bled and bled. His limbs cried out as he tried to force them into behaving.

The stranger from the car and Nate both walked him straight home. The stranger rang the doorbell and Malcolm could hear his father's heavy footsteps approaching. Shame flooded him entirely. He'd made a fool of himself in front of Nate, ruined his brand new bike, and now his dad was going to know. He knew he wasn't going to be mad, but...but it made more tears twist down his face anyway. 

Martin had come to the door and dropped to his knees upon seeing Malcolm. Malcolm hiccuped a sob and ran into his arms as the stranger apologized profusely. The stranger and Nate recounted what happened. When they were done with their brief explanation, Martin thanked them for bringing his boy home and lifted Malcolm to shut the door and carry him inside. 

It was awkward. Malcolm was eight - nearly nine - and far too big to be carried, but Martin managed anyway. Malcolm's arms were tightly wound around the doctor's neck and his legs dangled awkwardly, open, bloody knees bouncing against his father. The shock had worn off and Malcolm's throat tightened as he sobbed into the soft blue sweater. Martin shushed him and cooed reassurances that everything was alright and that he'd take good care of him. He managed to carry Malcolm all the way upstairs, to the bathroom, and set him down on the counter. 

He got tissue to wipe away the snot dribbling down Malcolm's lip and a cool washcloth to run over Malcolm's face.

God, how he wished right now, at thirty two, to have that moment once again. Right now he felt that same helplessness, that same panic, but there was no one to pick him up, to tell him everything would be okay. Desperately, he wanted that warm smile and empathetic gaze. He wanted to feel the hydrogen peroxide bubble on his open wounds, hear the hiss of it, to know that the gravel was being cleaned out. He wanted the water to run red with his blood, because at least it meant that the bandages were coming. 

He remembered the sharp lines of his father's face, the concentration in his eyes as he so carefully cleaned out every wound. He swiped away Malcolm's tears before they could reach his chin and kissed his forehead. He made the dirt dissolve and the grit disappear. And even though Malcolm's skin was gone in places, even though he was exposed and in pain, he had never felt safer than in that moment. He had never felt more seen, more understood and more taken care of. It was the best worst thing that happened to him in those wonder years, before the nightmare began. 

Now, just like then, everything was out of control. Only, the grownups couldn't fix this one. He was one of the grownups and to his horror, one of the worst parts of growing up was realizing that adults had no idea what they were doing - just like kids. They didn't have all the answers. They couldn't make bad things go away. The entire world had become Malcolm on his bike and this scourge was the car door flying open. They were collectively soaring, lost in the grip of gravity and consequence, hurtling towards something. Things would either get better or worse and the not knowing which was what was popping the seams of Malcolm's sanity. 

Days and days in isolation, with no company other than his own. It was his worst nightmare. No distractions, no human interaction, just the gaping maw of inevitability. Time would masticate him, chew him up and break him down slowly so that spit-wet madness could swallow him down. He teetered on that abyss of dissociating entirely, of letting anxiety have at him, rip him apart with its claws. But he just couldn't do it. He couldn't give in. 

Not yet. 

Was this what it's like for Martin? he wondered. A rollercoaster of hope and dismay, the rise and fall of stability, the inability to get off the ride. He wanted to wrap his arms around Martin's neck and be carried up the steps. He wanted to sob into that blue cardigan clad shoulder, letting out shuddering breaths and taking in that familiar cologne. He wanted safety back. 

Malcolm twisted his head and looked out the half round window. Daylight was slipping away and rain drops began to spit against the glass. All was quiet save for the pitter of the pelting rain, the hum of the heater, the whir of the refrigerator, the sound of his own breath - in and out - in and out. He would have to wait, along with the rest of the world. A tear slipped from his eye and rolled down the gaunt hill of his hollow cheek. 

"It's okay Malcolm," he heard Martin's voice to his left and whipped his head in that direction. His father stood there in his blue sweater with his now wildly unruly gray mane and beard, his eyes crinkled from his smile, soft and pitying. "You're going to be alright, I promise. Everything's going to be okay," he soothed. The words rushing over Malcolm like a warm current. 

Malcolm sat up, propping his body with his arms prostrate behind him. He let a few more tears go before moving his head to face forward, squeezing his eyes shut and listening to his breath whistle past his teeth and lips. When he opened his eyes once more, and turned to look, he no longer felt the weight of a gaze upon him. He no longer saw Martin standing at the side of his bed. 

He was alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize - this started as a one-off but I myself am feeling quite claustrophobic. So...I wrote more...If you'd like to see a pairing eventually, leave a comment and let me know which one. Thanks for reading <3

He stood in the shower, rocking gently forward and back. He hadn't reached for the shampoo or conditioner, hadn't made a move for the soap, he just stood there. 

Fifteen minutes ago, the water had started out hot, now it was lukewarm. Twisting around, he grasped the knob and made it hotter. It was a waste of water and he knew it, but he pushed away the thorn of guilt because it felt so damn good. Time had been a paradox, moving both too quickly and too slowly. If he zoned out, Malcolm could make the days rip away like pages in a notebook. But then he felt guilt at willing time to speed. It seemed as if his life was slipping away with the changing calendar days. But if he didn't zone out, time moved far too slowly, threatening to take apart his handle on reality, one brick at a time. 

So, caught between his handling of time, he stood there, arms folded behind his back as water wrapped around him like a liquid blanket. He listened to the sound of it thudding against his skin, sliding off his body in a cascade of droplets and plunking against the fiberglass surface beneath his feet. The heat that filled the small space, the minute rocking motions, it was all an attempt to soothe himself. He knew it. Recognized it for what it was. 

His brain was on a loop, caught in a racetrack that hit the familiar points of...'I want things to go back to the way they were.' 'I wish none of this was happening.' 'What if things get worse?' 'How long can I stay here, alone, before my sanity crumbles?' He sucked in a deep breath and finally unwound his arms to reach for the shampoo. He popped the cap open and squeezed some onto his slippery palm. The scent of tea tree oil and peppermint floated up to him. He massaged it into his hair and found the subtler notes of aloe vera and rosemary. He closed his eyes and let his fingers work, digging tiny circles into his scalp until his head was thoroughly covered in lather. 

He took a step back, letting the water rush over him again, purging his hair of the shampoo. He didn't want to stop the impromptu massage, so he grabbed the conditioner next. It smelled the same and he repeated his earlier actions. Only this time, when he was done covering every strand, he brought his hands to the juncture where his neck met his shoulders in a backwards attempt at a neck massage. His fingers were sliding over his skin, too slick with water and conditioner to get any real traction. 

For the first time, he realized just how tense his muscles were. They were pulled tight and hard beneath his hands. He explored his own warm flesh, finding knots and strains and letting out pained little gasps as he dug into them. 

The water was turning cold again. 

He turned to face the spray and turn the knob even further. Maybe once it was fully tilted to the left and still grew cool, maybe then he'd get out. But not before. 

His thumb and index finger jerked the knob a bit too far and the water that found him was impossibly hot. He just accepted it, bowed his head and let the near scalding rivulets snake down his pale flesh. He stared at one tiny river in particular, on his shoulder, watching it snake and twist and dance around a constellation of freckles. The water was pelting his chest, turning the porcelain skin a lovely hue of rosy red. He wondered if the water could heat him until he melted so that he could follow it as it swirled around the drain and then got sucked under. 

With a sigh, he rested his head against the side wall, feeling the cool tile at his forehead. He fought the urge to remain inert and instead grabbed his bar of charcoal soap. He ran the bar over his body and mentally marveled at his own weirdness. 

He had avoided taking a shower for several days. He hated having to take the time to make the effort. It was hard to push past the panic and the depression and take care of himself. But once he found himself inside the waterfall spray, he never wanted to leave. The notion of exiting the cocoon comfort of the shower stall made something uncomfortable itch in his chest. He didn't want to be cold and on the outside. In here he felt safe. Once he stepped over the lip of the shower, he felt nothing more than naked, exposed and vulnerable. The world dug its sharp nails into his hardwood floor and crawled towards the bathroom to find him. 

He wanted to push it out, shove it back, close himself up and lock the door. 

"You can't stay in there forever," Martin chuckled. It startled Malcolm who dropped the soap as he started. He nearly slipped and fell on his ass, but his slick palm found the wall and his toes found their footing. His breath was fast, chest rising and falling with metronome steadiness. A blush exploded across his cheeks to match his reddened chest. It was just a hallucination, but it was so sharp, so clear that Malcolm could smell Martin's cologne wafting towards him on the cloud of mist generated by the shower head. He swallowed thickly and grit his jaw together before deciding to answer.

"Why not?" he asked. "It's not like there's anything to do out there." 

"Well for one, your water bill is going to be outrageous," Martin tilted his head with a smile. His eyes flicked over Malcolm and the young man had to fight the urge to hide. ‘It’s just a hallucination,’ he repeated the mantra in his head. A rather powerful hallucination as he was now turning, grabbing the towel and handing it to Malcolm.

Bright turned off the water and grabbed the downy soft, slate gray towel. He dried off, starting by dragging the fabric over his left arm, then his right, before bringing the softness to his face. He mussed his hair with it before moving onto his torso, then legs. Martin stood, watching. 

The heat at Malcolm’s cheeks seemed hotter than the water had ever been. 

“It doesn’t make any sense,” he said to himself, listening to his own voice bounce off the tiles. 

“What doesn’t?”

“That I’m hallucinating you. Why you?” he stepped out of the shower and onto the cloud-like bath mat. Cold air rushed to meet him, hitting Malcolm square in the chest. It sent a shiver skipping beneath his skin and he couldn’t help but shake. 

“I’m worried about you,” Martin offered.

“Well that’s pointless,” he answered, moving to his sink. “You worrying about me is just me worrying about me. You’re a hallucination, remember?” 

“Things were hard for you before this…” Martin walked closer and Malcolm fought the urge to sidle away. “Now the world’s panicking. You’re home alone during a quarantine. New York City has ground to a halt.” 

“Tell me things I don’t already know.” 

“Is that possible? Can I tell you things you don’t already know if I’m just a reflection of your own psyche?” his eyes crinkled with warmth that stopped the shivers rolling through Malcolm. He brought a hand up and placed it on Malcolm’s bare shoulder. 

Bright sucked in a breath and tried to will his hallucination away, but to no avail. 

“You need to eat my boy. You need to...open a window, go for a walk. Do something that will take your mind off the situation, even if for only a minute.” 

“I don’t need distractions,” he leaned heavily against the sink, feeling his pulse pool in the heels of his hands smashed against the marble. 

“Don’t you?” Martin sighed. “Then what do you need?” 

Malcolm lifted his face, his hair was dripping water onto his face and the drops rolled down his cheeks like tears. “I need for this whole thing to be over. I need for this virus to disappear.”

“You’re afraid.” 

“Of course I am,” he shouted, arms raising, throwing off the grip at his shoulder. His towel began to slide and he caught it just in time, securing it even tighter than before. 

“You shouldn’t have read that story about the young man whose father died in the hospital,” Martin tsk’ed. “Of course the hospital wouldn’t allow visitors during a pandemic.” 

“He didn’t even get to say goodbye,” he turned back towards his mirror, noting Martin’s reflection in it as well. “They wouldn’t even let him in to say goodbye,” his voice was small and tortured. 

“You’re worried that you’ll never see me again,” he whispered. “Oh, Malcolm...my boy…” 

“Please don’t…”

“Don’t what?” 

“Don’t inject your words with that pitying tone,” he pleaded. “I just...can’t take it.” 

“But it soothes you…”

“No - it - it doesn’t,” he lied. He ran a comb through his hair and then grabbed his toothbrush. He was grateful for the simple, familiar motions, but wished it was Martin with the toothbrush in his mouth instead. At least that way he wouldn’t be able to talk.

“You should call me,” Martin leaned his left hip against the vanity. “I’m lonely,” he admitted.

“No..” Malcolm mumbled with a mouthful of toothpaste. He spit it out and picked up his cup, turning the water on and filling it up. He swished with it and spit it into the sink. “You don’t get to play the sympathy card.” 

“I’m not - you are my boy. Just a hallucination, remember?” His twinkling eyes were like drill bits, boring holes into Malcolm until he reached his cold diamond heart. “You want to see me but you can’t. You’re worried about me, despite not wanting to be. You’re afraid something will happen to me and you’ll never get to see me - talk to me - ever again.”

Fear twisted in Malcolm’s chest and he hated - hated - how he still worried about Martin. That monster didn’t deserve to be worried about, or cared about. He had tried so hard to crush that tiny mustard seed of love he still had for his father...but it lived. Took root. 

“Call me. Or I’ll call you,” Martin began walking behind Malcolm and put a hand on the nape of Malcolm’s neck and squeezed once, before letting his fingers slide away. The action sent a shock ricocheting through his body. Malcolm watched in the mirror as Martin walked past him, out the bathroom door, vanishing. 

He breathed a sigh of relief and shook his head. His mental health was fracturing faster than he would have liked. How much time did he have until he cracked completely? 

Malcolm was almost afraid to walk into his loft, scared that he would be confronted by his hallucination of Martin once more. Luckily, when he emerged from the bathroom, his empty loft came into view. He walked over to his dresser, bare feet padding along the hardwood floor, and began opening mahogany drawers to get out some comfortable clothes. 

He gathered a soft gray t-shirt, some boxer briefs and sweatpants. He took his time in dressing, finally reaching for socks, when his cellphone rang. His head turned towards the buzzing item on his nightstand and dread mixed with hope in his chest. 

Walking to his bedside, he reached out a shaky hand and flipped his cellphone over. The words “Claremont” glared up at him.


	3. Chapter 3

He took a deep breath and feared briefly that it would be the director of Claremont, calling to tell him that his father had the virus. He swiped his thumb across the cool surface and brought the phone to his hot cheek.

"Hello?"

"Malcolm! My boy!" Martin sounded chipper as ever. 

Relief poured through Malcolm at hearing Martin's voice. His grip on his sanity really must be slipping to be so grateful that his tormenter remained alive. 

"Dr. Whitly," he answered, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. 

"Ah - I...why did you call?" 

"Really? Why did I call? Oh, I don't know..." he said mockingly. "It's not like anything important is going on in the world right now." 

Malcolm gripped the bed beneath him, to steady him, to give him strength. "H-how are you doing in there?" he asked. 

Martin paused, clearly attuned to the fact that something was off with his boy. 

"I'm alright I suppose," Martin answered, deciding that he would push for more during the course of their conversation. "I'm not really thrilled that I can't have any visitors. That I can't see you," he paused again. "I really called to see how you are faring through all of this." 

Malcolm thought for a moment about what he ought to say and settled upon lying through his teeth. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Martin sounded incredulous.

Malcolm couldn't help but wonder how his father viewed him. Did he see him as weak and fragile? Easier to manipulate? Is that why he favored spending time with him over his sister?

"Malcolm?" 

Shit, he'd drifted off in thought.

"Yeah. Yes. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Mom made sure that I have plenty of food. The team has been texting me. Ainsley gave me a whole armful of books to read."

"That's great. All of that is great...but Malcolm...if you're struggling...you can tell me," his voice was too soft, soothing almost. It made Malcolm's heart squirm. "I have a lot of experience in the 'being cooped up department,'" Martin huffed a laugh, but it was hollow. "I thought that the first year in here would be the worst, but I was wrong."

"What do you mean you were wrong?" He heard Martin draw in a long breath. 

"Some years were bearable," he went on, "others were..." he trailed off, his voice sounded haunted. 

"Others were what?" 

A beat of silence. 

"Excruciating," he finished. "I've very nearly lost my sanity at least half a dozen times over the course of these twenty years." 

"And what? This is supposed to make me feel sorry for you?" he grit, furious that he was, in fact, feeling sorry for him. 

"No, no..." Martin kept going. This was one of the longest phone conversations they'd ever had, and he didn't want to lose Malcolm, even if that meant opening up more than he'd ever thought he would. "I just know what it's like...to hang on to clarity by a thread. What helps the most is routine," he offered. "Scheduling a time for everything: breakfast, bathing, reading, lunch, exercise, writing, dinner, drawing, watching TV. A routine breaks up the monotony and forces you to stick to a schedule. It's very easy to just...crumple beneath the weight of staring down the barrel of endless minutes. It can become hard to focus on any one thing, to become lost. But a routine prevents that." 

"I know. I know that. You're not telling me anything I don't already know," he was in a poor mood, perhaps from all of the tension and anxiety. 

"We don't have group here anymore, just singular therapy through an iPad. No one has come in my cell in two weeks," he said. "And...I miss you." 

Malcolm's throat clenched. 

"I want you to know that...because we're so isolated now...they've left a phone in my room permanently...well...until all of this quarantine business is done with. So you can call me any time. I worry about you...I don't want you to get this virus."

Malcolm couldn't believe that his ears were picking up on true concern laced into the doctor's tone. His lips parted, ready to say, "I'm scared. I don't want you to get it either," but he couldn't force the words out. 

"I remember - rather vividly - the darkest years I spent in here," he was looking around his cell as he talked.

Malcolm couldn't tear the phone away from his ear, not even just for a second. Fighting the urge to pace, he instead pulled back his quilt and sheets and climbed into bed. He already knew what Martin was going to say; that the worst years in Claremont were spent thinking that he would never come back to visit. 

"After you told me you weren't going to see me anymore, I gave up entirely." 

"Why are you telling me this?" 

"Because. I - I need to."

"Right. Sure. To make me pity you. To put the blame on me for not visiting you for a decade," he said stolidly. "I didn't have to visit you at all you know. I didn't have to see you after the trial...when I was in middle school, high school, college. I could have never even come at all." He heard Martin take a shaky breath. 

"I know that. And you had every right to do that," he added. "The reason I'm telling you this is because I know what it's like to feel shut in, cut off from the world, set apart from everyone. I know what it's like not to have anyone to talk to, any reason to get up in the morning. If I could have killed myself in that year after you stopped coming, I would have." 

Malcolm's breath caught in his throat. He never thought that Martin would be a suicide risk - not being the narcissist he was. But without an audience or puppets to play with, it made sense. 

"That metal door would clang shut and time would stretch out before me - endless - mocking. Madness waited to pounce at every opportunity. It's psychological warfare my boy." 

He gripped the phone tight, his heart beating in his fingertips. 

"I would escape into books or into my drawings or into the...the day dream world I had so carefully constructed in my head. I had conversations with you all the time in my head. I knew you were really growing up out there, becoming a man, changing the world. I could picture your bright blue eyes so clearly," he said warmly. "It gave me hope. The thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd get to see you again one day. It gave me enough hope to face each day. That's the key, taking it one day at a time."

Malcolm wasn't sure what to say to that. 

"And I did get to see you again." 

"But what if this...what if I won't ever..." his voice threatened to turn teary. "What if I won't ever get to see you again?" 

"Oh, Malcolm," there it was again, this time for real, that pitying tone. It should have made Malcolm mad, but it only soothed him. "You're going to get through this my boy, and so am I...and so are Jess and Ains." 

"But what if something happens to one of you," his words were strangled, pushing past the knot of panic in his chest. 

"Sweetheart," Martin soothed, "I can't promise that everything will be okay. I can't see the future. But I know that you are so much stronger than you think. And god...your mother and sister are resilient as hell."

"And...you?" 

Something warm and sprawling unfurled in Martin's chest at his boy's words. If he had a heart, he certainly felt it in that moment. 

"Me? Well...no one's going in or out of here. Like I said, not another human being has been in my cell in two weeks. They push the food and supplies in here with gloved hands, the staff wears masks, and I haven't left the cell - not at all. Not for rec time. Not for therapy. Not even to shower. They've taken to giving us wet wipes and sponges for hand baths. I haven't smelled fresh air or felt the sun in weeks."

"Oh," he whispered. It sounded awful. Miserable. "I'm sorry..." the words slipped out before he could corral them. 

"It's alright. If I could choose between the little freedoms I had before this virus in conjunction with not being able to see you for a decade...or choose to have none of these freedoms but know that I get to talk to you on the phone...get to see you when this is over...well, it would be no contest. I'd choose this any day." 

Malcolm gripped the sheets around him, turning onto his side and staring into his loft.

"I know you're lonely," Martin said suddenly, as if he could read his mind. "I know that loneliness. I've felt that loneliness. Aside from that impromptu surgery on Jin, I haven't felt another human being in twenty years. Not a hug, not a touch." 

Tears were gathering at Malcolm's eyes and his lip shook. He tried to shove away the swelling emotions, but he had no energy or strength to keep them down. He let out a small sob as the liquid trailed down his face and disappeared into his pillow. 

"I'm scared," he finally admitted in a shaking whisper. 

"Oh Malcolm, my sweet boy..."

He wanted to collapse into Martin's arms, bury his face in his soft sweater, shake and sob until his eyes couldn't produce any more tears. His anxiety really had reached unbearable heights. He felt so trapped and alone. He worried constantly over his family and his team. He feared for the economy, for the world. It was like being locked inside of a nightmare that he couldn't wake from. 

"I just want this to go away," he shook. "I want to see you," his sinuses clogged as more tears rolled forward to replace the fallen. He knew that Martin was a monster, but that didn't stop the heartbreak he felt imagining him locked away in such a tiny space. No sun, no breeze, no chances to talk to anyone face to face. He may be a monster, but he was Malcolm's monster, and he was suffering too. 

Any time he felt such sympathy for Martin, it was always - always - accompanied by crushing guilt. It was accompanied by hatred for himself for being so weak. He tried to remind himself of Martin's victims, of his callous cruelty. But his mind's eye kept offering up soft images of a warm, bearded man who carried him up the steps, who read to him, who hung on his every word. The conflict within Malcolm was enough to undo a sane person. 

"I want to see you too," Martin's voice was barely under control. "I get scared too sometimes. But when I do...I picture you here with me...keeping me company. And I want you to do the same," he instructed. "When you're feeling lost or alone, I want you to picture me there. Picture me hugging you, tucking you in, making you dinner. Have whole conversations with me if you want. Call me whenever you'd like, no matter what time it is. I'm here for you, I understand." 

Malcolm hiccuped another sob. "I can't...I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel."

"I know...I know...but it's there. I promise."

"Not for you," his pillow was soaked. "There's no light at the end of the tunnel for you."

"That's not true. You're my light Malcolm."

"And what if something happens to me? What if I die?" his bones rattled as he shook. 

"Don't - don't go there. Don't torture yourself. Or me," Martin said in a wheeze. "You are my light Malcolm, and I'll follow you wherever you go, even if it means following you into death. Not that we'd go to the same place after this life, I'm sure." 

"Why...why..." Malcolm was whispering, more to himself than the man on the other end of the line. 

"Why what?" 

"Why'd you have to be a killer," Malcolm said so openly, so honestly that it blew apart Martin's ability hold back tears. "Why would you ever do anything that would ensure we'd be apart forever? All eternity?" 

Now he heard Martin crying on the other end...near silent, tiny, whimpering sounds. "Malcolm," his voice was positively tortured. "I love you." 

The words raced through him, past his brain, down his spine, around his heart. They filled him and made him feel more whole than he had in a long time. 

"I love you too," he found himself saying. 

"I'll talk to you later okay?" Martin's voice was pulled tight, it was cracking in all the wrong places. 

"Okay."

They both hung up.


End file.
